With my escape to England now complete, it only makes sense to share a proper description for my new Russell Stokes book. Let's be clear now, this description is simply a preview for the upcoming book that will be out in spring 2026.  I still have to send it off to my copy editor before I can schedule the actual release date.

The greater question is does this book interest you? Have you read the first book in the series, because if you haven't that's where we first meet Russell and see the events that immediately lead to Double Cross. I know I'm tooting my own horn, but it's honestly worth a look. As for the new book, I think it's the best one I've written out of the twenty one books composed over the years.

Let’s dive into the topic at hand and what’s got me thinking this morning about people, toxicity, and how it emanates everywhere. 

Here in Morocco, it’s a different beast altogether, simply because I don’t understand the language or culture enough to state whether it exists at all. I imagine it does, but still, I work at an international school, so I’m around kids, adults, and the entire educational dynamic that is a microcosm for the same issues we will be diving into. Not wanting to focus on work for a moment, because who cares about that, let’s talk about My Shenandoah Love instead.

I wrote this new adult romance in the summer of 2014. I remember it well because it was right after I grinded away at Going Home. The story was a perfect reprieve and counterbalance to Vincent and Christian, and their final story together as lead characters. For two weeks, I was consumed with Hannah’s story. 

Quick side note. I had just moved from my writing retreat for the summer, a studio apartment in Newmarket, New Hampshire, to an in-law loft studio in bucolic Gilmanton, New Hampshire. Surrounded by lakes, trees, and peace of mind, this was my stomping ground for the upcoming school year. I might have been there a day or two, waiting for my furniture to arrive, when I drove over to Johnson’s Dairy Bar in New Durham, where this beautiful woman with long, flowing, strawberry blonde hair captivated my attention. 

To this day, I have no clue how old she was, but I’m confident she was late teens or even twenty, a college student working her summer gig before returning to school in the fall. I remember getting my ice cream from this girl and then retreating to a picnic table to savor every lick and bite. By the time I was done with my dessert and driving home, Hannah Jones had been created.

Knowing that I needed some conflict and a proper love triangle to be set up, I brainstormed salacious ideas. Why not make one conflict where Hannah and her mother were interested in the same married man? I know, scandalous, right? It gets better, let’s throw a minister into the mix who can’t keep his Johnson under control (see that another joke) while he’s with one woman, but trying to make his best move on young Hannah. This is the perfect combination for disaster, and someone’s getting hurt in the end. 

Just thinking about the storyline makes me smile, as the character dynamics were interesting and, honestly, truthful to how people really are. That’s where we shift to the topic of the day. After the book was written, I had my editors go through the manuscript and release the story. For some reason, most likely to get new readers, I posted the first chapter on a writing community website challenge.
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Let me tell you this: most of my fellow writers are a-holes. Sorry, it’s true. At the very least, many are difficult people. Seriously, you get people of all walks on these sites. Many have an axe to grind and are simply on it to ruin another person’s day. They also believe that public forums are fair game to share uncensored opinions, right or wrong. We have those across the spectrum, with some who look for the positive, some who post irrational responses, and others who just want attention. I imagine there are other categories I’m leaving out, but you get the idea. 

Anyway, on this community site, I had the book up for three days, maybe less, when the comments started coming in. One reader (writer in disguise) wanted me to know that my northern Virginia location wasn’t authentic to the area. Newsflash, the story takes place in Front Royal, where I worked for five years. I’m pretty sure it’s authentic unless you live in a hole. Another reader said the entire exchange between mother and daughter was unrealistic. No mother would call their child names, let alone the words I used. While I would love to share those words with you, they weren’t nice ones, but having been around teens, young adults, and parents for years, let alone going through the life cycle myself, I can assure you that some families swear at each other.

Then the real heavy hitters came in, those readers who wanted me to know that my story wasn’t politically correct. OMG, the horror of it all. What was I doing? There were other, more telling ways to create this tale of new adult woe, without using obscene vocabulary and having characters put down one another. Didn’t you know that no one ever puts anyone down? No one swears in this world? And a sixteen-year-old having a crush on the early twenties deputy, that would never happen. 

I took the posting down, annoyed with the feedback. There was no need to play the game, nor was I going to have a chance to win the contest that was being offered, simply because the comment police was out in force and had missed the fact that I’m a product of the 1980s and won’t cave to a climate where people in books are fake and not real to the reality we live in. The next time you see college students speaking Old English or with a Victorian vernacular, do let me know where the performance is being held.

That being said, I gave up on putting my books or samples on writing community sites. If you are only going to read the first page and miss the entire purpose of the story, it’s all good from my perspective, but I don’t want or need to hear your opinion on the matter. For me, this shifted the narratives for book reviews, period. Amazon, at the time, was notorious for letting anyone post a review even if they clearly didn’t read the book, let alone purchase the work. I had one person for Running With Vince, write something like, “No one cares about you and your twin brother. This book sucks.” 

Then again, I had readers who were simply stupid. Did you read the book summary before opening it? If you knew it was in the first person, why did you keep reading? Because I couldn’t resist, look at these two reviews for Our Place by the Sea from Amazon. “A very short story. I dislike storytelling in the first person. I felt sad after finishing the story. I was bored reading it.” Or “I did not enjoy reading this, very self-absorbed, so I stopped reading. It is not about nature, as I had hoped.”
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I’m sharing this because everyone is honored for their opinion, simply by merit, but then again, it’s how we choose to respond to those opinions that matter. In writing, at this stage, ten plus years later, I don’t care either way. Whatever the story becomes is true to what I wanted readers to encounter. If you think it’s not realistic, fine, bless your heart. If you don’t like the story, for any reason, that’s fine too. I hear there are millions of other books, including AI ones, that will tickle your fancy. 

My issue continues to be with people who make comments not on my books, but just online, period, social media, YouTube, who I know are hiding behind their screens and wouldn’t do it in person. If they did it in person, we all know it would be a different encounter completely. That’s not intended to be a threat; I’m simply sharing that many people think the screen is a place for them to spew out whatever they want, regardless of the consequences. 

By spewing out hate, for many of them, it’s created such a toxic climate that many of us don’t want to doom scroll, check the news, or do anything online, because it carries over into the real world. I certainly don’t need to see or want in my feed political commentary that in my younger days was not posted for the entire community to see.

Words, at the end of the day, can be hurtful. It’s true, and we don’t know the reader’s perspective or their life story, so posting or commenting on something in a manner that creates divisiveness is irresponsible and creates a dark cloud over the entire matter. That’s the bottom line. 

At least with a book, if you don’t like it, you can put it down and read something that is more aligned with your values and thought patterns. We can’t necessarily do that when we are posting pictures or videos for friends and family, in an attempt to maintain connection (and sometimes for validation) only to get knocked down repeatedly by the trolls out there.

In school, I see this daily. Kids are simply trying to find their way in this world and discover who they are, but their community and their families impact how this path will go. You can’t model hateful, entitled things and not expect the next generation, the one you are raising, to do the same. 

Again, books are books. It’s a fictional release, just like a horror movie is going to create a thrill or a fright; it’s not reality, and can be swapped out. But when people belittle others in a public place, a restaurant, because their food was too cold or not enough salt was added, or the item they purchased was missing a bloody screw, it’s not the person’s fault who is dealing with the brunt of the attack. 

Even if it was their fault, what right do you have to take it out on them? Does it really matter in the scheme of your life whether a cup of coffee was hot enough? Are you so important that if someone who is consumed with their family struggle cuts you off on the highway, that it means you need to do the same? 

At the end of the day, on the web or in person, people are doing their best to manage. We can either make it easier on each other or be the reason another person’s day shifts to a more miserable one. As we shift to Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the New Year, do you need to be part of the problem or part of the solution? That’s what you have to ask yourself. Is it really worth posting that comment or can you let it be? 

Just some food for thought, from somebody who cares. 
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One more kilometer of driving and it was clear we had arrived at Poland’s happiest village or perhaps most gaudy. I kid a little, but when I spotted the fire department and saw the etched flower pattern underneath the windows and over the doors, it was a bit much for me. Granted, it could have been the contrast in colors, with the orange, yellow, blue, and red, but it seemed like they were forcing the tradition onto a building that didn’t need an arrangement. 

I’m sure Instagrammers would swoon over a fire department with hot red truck doors, a metal roof, and primarily a building in a greyish tone aside from the flowers and the red lining around the windows. I shrugged because I wanted to see the old village homes, one-room houses, or three-room dachas where you knew your grandparents were raised, and had to do everything without modern conveniences. That’s what I was looking for, not a bloody cement building that you tried to liven up with a stitch pattern.

Still, at the fire department, the flowers were everywhere. Who cares if I felt like I was in Kansas, among crops, fields, and only the occasional tree? Across the street, I saw what I believed was a church from the distinct wooden cross. The building itself was nothing to write home about, but all the windows had large bouquets, adorning the area, making you feel as though flowers were growing on the walls and through the cracks. I knew, though, from my limited research, the real show was the inside. 

I decided at this point to keep walking and spotted a brand new cement one-level house farther down the street that required my attention. The perfect cobblestone driveway gave away the newness of this house, and more importantly, a weird vibe. Although these same flower designs were prevalent, they felt forced. Did I say I was disappointed? I’m not trying to be negative, but I'm being honest about the fact that I just assumed the only houses with flowers were the old wooden ones. To me, it seemed like whoever built this structure was like, “Oh, we better put some flowers around the windows. And instead of painting the outside white, as they would have done in the past, we’ll have sections that are white with colorful flowers. Let’s make sure these overhead spaces can be removed if necessary.” 

Honestly, it felt weird. I was more excited to get away from this building and walk down the street to Dana and the car, wondering if she had spotted the traditional houses or if this was going to be some sham tour. As I was about to ask her if she had found out anything new or seen something better than what I had, the wheat crop became the real show. 

Let’s talk about something cool. I'm in my early forties, and I have never stepped foot in a field full of barley. This was amazing and beautiful. Had the rain not begun to fall, I likely would have considered taking a run or at least a walk through this illustrious area, to take on the role of Maximus in Gladiator when he did the same at the end of Gladiator. Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t Pienza, Italy, but the energy felt similar to me. Sure, the barley or wheat wasn’t that high either, but it was still in the same spirit.
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In our favour, I looked out and spotted a cemetery to our immediate left. A tractor-trailer sped by, and I had to call out for Dana to stop. She knows of my obsession with cemeteries and had to make a phone call, so the timing was ideal, as is often the case with many of my vlogging sessions. 

I will share that this wasn’t some quiet road either. We weren’t the only vehicle driving towards Zabno. There wasn’t even a proper pull-off. This was the countryside, and had it not been for the cemetery and the poorly maintained grass, Dana would have had to park off kilter on the edge of the road. I got out of the car and walked towards this beauty of a memorial. 

I had to laugh because, truly, corn was planted around every part of this thing. The fact that there was a path of sorts seemed weird, but then again, this cemetery in the middle of a cornfield and high-voltage power lines was equally amusing. 

The obelisk with the distinct cross towered over the crops, a full eleven meters high, and made this resting place for World War I soldiers even more fitting. A sign indicated that this was from late 1914 and early 1915, and soldiers from multiple sides were stationed in different sections of this relatively small outdoor shrine. A lone poppy grew proudly near the remains of some British soldiers. I spotted the German and Russian markers before climbing over the rock wall to take another look at the corn that enwrapped itself in this resting place for these soldiers. 

Unlike cemeteries I had traveled to and explored over the past year in Poland, this one was different. The energy alone was unique, and these graves made me reflect on war, and how these soldiers were put here out of convenience, much like many others in this part of the countryside. I wasn’t aware until after the fact, how many WWI graves are littered across these small towns, villages, and cities. I saw larger, more significant resting spots for these armies in places like Przemysl and Giżycko, but here was fitting for men at war who traveled to a foreign land, and this was what they had time for. 

It wasn’t glorious, nor did these men get much recognition for their efforts, and yet this proved they weren’t forgotten either. 

Truly, as I walked back to the road and spotted another plot across the street, nestled between a grove of trees with a cornfield as its perimeter, this felt fitting and peaceful. The grave marker told me everything I needed to know, with something like two hundred and ten Russian soldiers placed in a mass grave. This walk was a longer one, set farther back off the road, and yet more inviting. 

Four crosses took my breath away, and yet I focused on the fact that we had two small cemeteries with all this fertile land around them. I used the analogy on camera about how, even in death, there was a sense of renewal and rebirth that tied everything together. As I circled the wall, with only one entrance, I spotted more information about the five mass graves and three individual ones. 

Indeed, learning more about this place was informative, but the crosses over the mass grave were not what I expected. They spoke to me at some level. The trees surrounding the wall seemed like the rear guard, standing watch over these brave men who lost their lives. More than one hundred years after the fact, I could get a sense of the toil, the struggle, and perhaps even, as a veteran, I could relate to this loss of innocence and what these soldiers experienced, and those who served with them. 

The place was surreal and not an expected layover or wayward point. And yet, finding these cemeteries on the way to Poland’s happiest village seemed ironic and fitting at the same time. Dana missed all the fun, but then again, I don’t think she realized this might be the high point of our adventure. 

We might have been on the high ground, because for the next few minutes we continued to drive in this low-level area that I swore was more of a flood plain, or a potential one. I even imagined the river overflowing and then feeding and nourishing these fields to produce the corn that would make even Kansas proud. 
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Some stories and books are worth revisiting. I know that for the last ten years, I have annually read an autobiography by a Polish doctor, Janusz Subczynski, who emigrated to the United States and wrote about his journey growing up in Poland under Nazi and Soviet Occupation, through the time he practiced medicine in Michigan. Whenever I need perspective on my life and where I am, I find his two-part autobiography, In the Shadow of Satan and The Colors of Life, to fill that void.

Revisiting the doctor’s travels and life experiences, and also considering how much he positively impacted others during his lifetime, I want to continue living similarly with that passion for service. To that end, during my stint teaching summer school this past July, I reflected on the books I have written and the readers’ comments I have received over the years. My focus point was on what books had a more meaningful message that helped others, and continued to meet people where they were during difficult periods in their lives? With these questions in mind, one story stood out above the rest, and it was woefully unappreciated by me.
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The Power of Storytelling in Coping With Grief

Let’s be straight here and back up a few steps: I’m not writing this to toot my own horn; I am simply stating that I know Running With Vince, the story about twin brothers on a final road trip together, serves a purpose. Their relationship in life and death brings perspective on how we all face dramatic life events and how we can move forward, as well as cope with those changes.

More importantly, the book offers a different perspective, one that is reassuring, I believe, on what happens when we lose the ones we love and how that relationship remains present even after death.

Revisiting Memories as a Path to Healing

While many of us are familiar with Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and her groundbreaking works on death and dying, as well as the stages of grief that we experience, Running With Vince allows room for those stages, but also offers hope for the steps ahead. With Kubler-Ross in mind and Janusz, especially Janusz from our conversations when he was still among the living, I thought it was time to revisit my story dedicated to my twin brother.

Coping With the Loss of a Sibling or Twin

Admittedly so, this was a more challenging project to go back and read through. It had to have been at least eight years since I last picked up the book. Even then, whether I read cover to cover, I don’t know for sure. This wasn’t because I didn’t like the book or the story; part of it was pride.

The Unique Bond Between Twins

When I first wrote the book in 2011 and then had a family friend edit the story in 2013, I felt like my words, as well as my twin brother’s words, were being altered, and it was no longer the story we had co-created. Yes, the premise was unchanged during the editing process, and the major scenes, but certain words and the perspective shared at points didn’t sound like me.

Whether it’s fitting or not, I deleted several versions of Running With Vince during a computer change and file purge in 2022 and lost the final edited copy. I know this because the copies I pulled up on my Amazon account had different file names and year numbers. That made this revision all the more special because it felt like I was back at the beginning.

Lessons From Running With Vince on Hope and Healing

For the last two weeks, specifically, I had the privilege of reading about Christian and Vincent and their unique bond. I got to see into that world again, this twin dynamic they shared, and, of course, relive several moments from my life twenty-plus years ago. The emotions and overall message are still intact, as I intended, which is why I wanted to revise and release a new edition.
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What the Journey of Christian and Vincent Teaches Us

For those who haven’t read the book and are dealing with loss in their lives, especially the loss of a sibling, child, or twin, I believe you will find it helpful in navigating the next steps, the healing process, and the days ahead.

Finding Comfort in Shared Stories of Grief

As for this writer, it was simply lovely to revisit old friends and remember that not every story needs to be War and Peace, but one that embodies a message we can all embrace and understand. If you are looking for something new to read or to revisit, please do.


Tags: #GriefHealing #SiblingLoss #TwinBond #LifeAfterLoss #HealingJourney #CopingWithGrief #StorytellingHeals #RunningWithVince #HopeAfterLoss

I suspect this will be a self-serving blog, to say the least, as I have my first and only weekend off during my summer school and camp assignment here in western New Hampshire, coinciding with the Fourth of July festivities.
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I'll be the first to admit that I used to be a big fan of this holiday, except that it seems like every person and their friend is now out and about on a lake or at the beach during this occasion. Even I smile when I remember those childhood memories of driving the dirt roads from Gilmanton Iron Works over to Alton Bay to watch the fireworks. The even greater excitement was the drive back in the utter darkness, hoping we wouldn't collide with a moose, deer, or fox. To that end, I'm a big fan of staying off the roads this holiday weekend. 

That's my first recommendation to any person who finds this blog. In fact, here's my list of things to do for every introvert on America's loudest holiday. 

1. Stay at home and read. - Yes, I know this one sounds pretty exciting, but hey, why not? This is the perfect time to unwind, grab your favorite summer read, and take it all in. You could go crazy and even pick up one of my books. Rumor has it that I have two new books out, including Brindisi and Me. 

2. Go for a drive on back roads, not only to avoid all the summer and holiday traffic from those fabulous out-of-state loafers and weekend warriors, but to take in the beauty of this great region.

3. Go to Walmart for the real celebration of the holiday. Come on, if you want to see what real America is and what we value, there is no better place to visit. Sure, you should go to a cemetery, a parade if you know of one, or a town celebration, but do one better and check that all off at Walmart. You can even grab a case of your favorite cold ones, whatever that might be. 

​4. If you insist on going to the beach to be like everyone else, whether that's in the Lakes Region or on the Seacoast, go in the early morning. When I write early, I mean before six. Avoid the crowds, walk the beach, especially at Rye Harbour, where only the locals venture. If you are even more ambitious, Long Sands in York is an incredible find with great views and atmosphere. My personal favorite might be Newcastle, or well, shhh, don't tell anyone, but Lubec, Maine. Yes, it's worth the drive, especially if you want to escape for this holiday weekend.

5. The most essential thing to do is to have some ice cream. I don't care where you get some, whether it's at Walmart, where you can buy a half gallon of Friendly's ice cream, or if you want to go old school and head to Memories in Kingston, New Hampshire, or any mom-and-pop ice cream vendor.  Come to think of it, I would say be reckless and do a mini golf tournament. Start in Alton Bay, play the home course, head to Weir's Beach for another round or two (avoid the indoor course at Fun Spot), and hit the Pirate's Cove one on the Meredith line after you play the somewhat challenging course across from what used to be Surf Coaster. I'm still mad about that place closing... Anyway, after you play all these roads, there are plenty of options for ice cream, soft serve, or hard. 

What do you think? Are these some good tips? Do you have any better ideas? 

​-JFK

Here's an excerpt, a preview of one chapter from my newest book, Brindisi and Me: What I Learned from Two Years Living in Southern Italy.

The book is being released on June 30th, after 4.5 years of being worked on. Truly, I started this memoir back in October of 2020. It's a relief to finally complete this work and share it with readers everywhere. 

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The grind of the school year for teachers and the routine many follow make it a challenge to be out and about when the weekends come. More often than not, one of those weekend days is the time to recharge after a busy week, dealing with the ups and downs of school, and the joys and challenges that come from working with children. Some educators can overcome this and can be out and about on a school night. This might mean going to the movies, having dinner, or simply working out at the gym. Younger teachers will often attempt to burn the candle at both ends, going out dancing during the wee hours of the morning and then fighting the good fight during the school day.
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One of the challenges of being in Brindisi or Italy and Europe, in general, is that much of the nightlife and activities don’t get going until later in the night. If you are a morning person, it can be challenging to adopt nocturnal habits after dealing with an entire school day.

Full disclosure: I am not the best person to advise on what to do at night in Brindisi. I’m not the right person to talk about which restaurants, bars, and dance venues are the ideal places to visit. While those are critical cultural spots to make connections within the local community, it’s not what my journey was focused on. 

Having shared this, my weekends would have been more adventurous, especially with exploring the Pugliese countryside, had I visited Lecce and the nearby masserias, olive groves, and wine vineyards during my first year, rather than my second. We all made choices, and I was focused on staying in, paying off debts, and exploring everything within walking distance or that I could visit on my bike.

Interestingly enough, I use my aunt in Washington, DC, as a perfect example. She has been in the DC area since the late 1960s. In comparison, she is familiar with many cool locations and places to visit. She would be hard-pressed to tell you the last time she went into the Capital or frequented a museum or a particular restaurant that wasn’t a few miles from her home.

More often than not, when you live in a place for an extended period, initially, it’s pretty standard for people to explore and try all the new things they can find. Then, as the years progress, once they are settled in place, routines are set. People would rather do what makes them feel secure as opposed to going to a dance club in DuPont Circle. If you have visited the Naval Academy twenty times, why do you have to go a twenty-first time? The same applies to various monuments and locations. I think this happens frequently. It’s only the new people who see more of the surrounding area, while those who have grown up in the region are set in their ways. 

Perhaps I’m wrong, but that’s just been my observation. With that in mind, my familiarity was with the side streets and venues within Casale, rather than the city center of Brindisi. It wasn’t until two years ago that I was able to truly explore the old city and gain a deeper appreciation for Brindisi, which continues to grow on me. The same is true with Bari, Lecce, Ostuni, and other notable spots that are a short train ride away.

I intended to see so much more of Italy when I moved there. I wanted to visit San Marino, Trieste, and Venice, among other spots. There was that urge to play the role of a proper tourist, and yet I was not a tourist but a physical resident in Puglia. 

To that end, my school vacations were spent traveling abroad. I wasn’t as interested as other teachers were in exploring different parts of this beautiful nation. Frankly, I wanted to take a break from hearing Italian and from the trash. I tried to get a glimpse of Poland, England, and Serbia. And even when I visited those places, I wasn’t going to the hotspots. Suppose you ask Americans today where Serbia is, good luck in getting the correct answer. When I visited England, I didn’t go to London; I went to Southport. This is a small seaside community north of Liverpool that boasts the largest pier in Europe and is known for being the city that influenced Napoleon III in planting all those trees along the Champs-Élysées. A similar story with Poland took me to Gdansk and Sopot, where I wanted to experience the rich history of the area and visit the largest wooden wharf in Central Europe.

This doesn’t mean that I didn’t feel drawn to visit Tuscany, especially places like Siena and Florence, or to explore Verona or the mountains. I find that you don’t necessarily want to see the areas set up for tourists. They treat you differently, and that’s a fact.

When I finally left Brindisi and stayed in Italy, it was for a weekend trip to Pisa. I was going there for a conference that was supposed to last the weekend, and I figured I’d be able to walk the streets, get a feel for another region, and perhaps even see some green. If there’s one thing that I missed from living on the heel of the boot, it was the lack of lush green grass and sharp, beautiful, methodical mountains.

 Brindisi at times has an oasis feel, and yet it also evokes those desolate, desert climate and terrain vibes. That in itself was odd because when precipitation would come and nourish the ground, it felt less like the blowing sands of the Sahara and more like a tropical destination. Yet after my first shift in seasons from fall to winter to spring, the change in scenery, especially in Pisa, was therapeutic.

Brindisi to Pisa is a short flight. It was around ninety minutes at best. I was able to get into the Galileo Galilei Airport, also known as Pisa International, if you’re not interested in a bit of history. Out of Brindisi, I believe this was a 4:30 flight, so I was on the ground roaming the streets shortly after six in the early evening. Ready to explore one of the most significant tourist areas in all of Italy and a mainstay for photographers, I did my best to visit this historical city in Tuscany, home to Galileo, by doing what all Italians do: walking the streets.
I looked at Google Maps and even printed off a sheet giving me directions to my hotel, which was three miles from the airport. I knew the general vicinity and that my room was on the backside of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Even if I got lost, I could go to the tower and head directly west towards the water. In between those two spots, the hotel would be waiting. 

If you want to get to know a place and get a feel for any location, get lost. Seriously, lose your cell phone and any maps or directions that you have, and just will yourself to wherever you need to be or want to visit. While I wish this were my plan, it was also out of necessity, as there was a similar lack of road signage, just like in Brindisi. Once I crossed over the Arno River, I meandered toward the northwest.  

Let me tell you what I discovered: a meaningful walk along the majestic Arno, which served as the divider between the part of Pisa closer to the airport and the other half that led to famous monuments, churches, and my favorite landmark, the horse track. Strolling through a city park that lined the river, I stumbled across a statue of Galileo Galilei with his finger out, pointing towards the stars.

I had no idea that Galileo was from Pisa, to begin with, nor did I expect to stumble across this famous person in history. Mesmerized by that fact and by the gardens that were springing up along the river with fresh flowers and buds, it was a wonderful moment. Springtime in early May is an ideal time to visit. You get off-season rates but with fewer people and bearable weather. As I relished in the scent of flowers, I knew the trains went north of my location and were parallel to the tower and my hotel. Wanting to be different, I avoided the popular roads with the occasional sign directing me to the Tower of Pisa. 

Instead, I went underneath a tunnel and back onto a main thoroughfare where I could take in the mom-and-pop restaurants and stores. This wasn’t like when you do a search on Google Maps and type in “restaurants,” and they say “Italian restaurant” or “Chinese restaurant.” These were places that you had to zoom into the actual city streets for them to list the name.

They were also restaurants and venues that followed the siesta schedule and embraced later hours. This doesn’t mean those visiting Pisa wouldn’t stumble across these hidden gems. Still, you are in for a different experience several blocks away from the horde of tourists fighting to get to McDonald’s next to the famous tower. 

Shortly after passing a small bistro, I contemplated how close it was to my hotel and whether it would make sense to stop by and grab a bite to eat. Admittedly so, it was getting close to seven, and I wanted to check into the hotel and get settled first. The meandering continued until I found myself on Route 551. 

I did a double-take, crossing the street to make sure that the aggressive drivers couldn’t calculate how many points one could get for hitting an American. With the traffic beside me, I took in the smells and the sounds, and smiled when that open field came into view. There was the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and from a vantage point I never considered. There she stood, the backside of the tower, from a perspective of an undeveloped grassy knoll with the surrounding churches standing guard.

To be frank, I was dumbfounded. Why had they never developed this area? I wasn’t complaining either. If anything, I was relieved they hadn’t because shortly thereafter, on the left as I cut through and around some bushes, I arrived at Allegroitalia Pisa Tower Plaza, a five-star hotel and resort that had an awesomely inexpensive rate because it wasn’t in season.

Sure, the pool wasn’t open, but it didn’t mean I wasn’t getting the same caliber of room and the same quality of treatment that people would otherwise receive in June, July, and August. Having said that, if you want to visit Pisa, I suggest you visit in early May. The weather is warm but comfortable, and the monument area, if that’s what you’re drawn to, is a short walk from the train station. You can stay in Pisa for a day or use it as a central location to explore other parts of Tuscany without any drama.

You’re still gonna get some people, but it’s not the massive crowds that you would expect during the summer months. And for the more adventurous, you could get off the beaten path literally and follow the horse path that I found on Viale delle Casine. This was the street off my hotel, which I found to be the most enjoyable part of my entire trip, and hands down my favorite part of Italy until I visited a masseria.

Let me paint you a picture of the beauty, the natural beauty that I did not expect to see in this area. Looking to the right of my hotel, a short ten to fifteen-minute walk under the train tracks would lead you into the tourist mecca with prices to match. You can buy your Pisa hat, postcards, a shot glass, and a t-shirt. More importantly, you can get that elusive selfie pushing or kicking over the tower. If you want to experience more culture, you can walk around the other structures and see the impressive churches that surround the tower.

Perhaps you won’t fall victim and go to McDonald’s or any restaurant within a four-hundred-meter radius of this tourist hub. Instead, you might just find yourself on one of the many side streets, around the lush and serene city parks with vintage cafés and small shops with character. If you’re like me and just want to avoid people, you wouldn’t dare walk towards the tower in the daylight hours. Truly, if you want to get the place to yourself, seven in the morning is ideal for this traveler. Some eager tourists shared the space, but it was doable and not overwhelming. When the tourist bus arrives, you can be long gone, enjoying nature or the sea. 

I don’t think many people realize this, but Pisa is right on the water. If you look at a map, it’s clear, but for some reason, I overlooked this fact. It wasn't until we were descending to the airport that it clicked that this city was nestled along the Mediterranean. My hotel was situated in a truly special spot. Instead of going right to the tourists on their Italy tours, I went left and walked along vast fields, horse trails, and a beautiful forest.  

The mountains loomed in the distance. Their sharpness reminded me of Mount Chocorua and Cathedral Ledge in my native New Hampshire. The vast fields that lay out in front of the mountains were a green reminder of the Mount Washington Valley and North Conway. Without realizing it, I had stumbled upon an area that was a picture-perfect replica of my home region.

The fields with their crops and tall grass sang to me. Like on the Arno River, there were beautiful and vibrant flowers littered around small villas and homes along this horse-trodden path. It was as though we were back in time, seeing these stucco-covered homes, and yet the distant sound of the train served as a reminder that we weren’t in the middle of nowhere.

I continued on this horse path until I came to a large gate of what appeared to be a nature preserve, lined with trees that I knew would lead to the sea. If I’d been in Pisa for more than a weekend, there’s no doubt the sea was the next progression in this journey. And yet, I was content in that moment to turn around and walk back in the light rain. 

The most memorable aspect of the return trip was recognizing the horse training grounds. This was where many boarded and trained their steeds. With my parents dabbling with horse racing in the 1990s, this was another wink to my past and brought a smile to my face.
I saw a restaurant at the stables' entrance and wondered whether it was worth the effort and time to explore. From the outside, it didn’t look special. It was meant for the people who trained the horses, who needed a warm meal and convenience. This was not a tourist hot spot, let alone a place for people coming in off the street. 

And yet, here I found Ristorante Le Scuderie. This was a no-frills, working man’s place with wooden tables, some benches, and chairs. It was the perfect venue for people trekking in mud or dirt.

I sat down at a table near a window and looked at the people who were there before their siesta break. There was no fine china. For that matter, my menu was nothing complicated, with only a few items to choose from. This was a place where you get a home-cooked meal, and that’s precisely what I did. I ordered clams with linguine, perfectly balanced with olive oil, basil, and oregano. I paired it with an old-school Coca-Cola and enjoyed every single bite.

Watching the rain fall and hearing the melody of grown men conversing about their day, I imagined working with the horses and how they would be there, heading back to the stables or perhaps home after their meal. I imagined their conversations leaning towards family or soccer as well. I could only understand a few words here and there, but it was nice because I felt like I was with my people, and yet I was able to enjoy this meal in this moment by myself.

Like the countryside right out the door, the meal reminded me of growing up on the Seacoast and of our dear family friend, Miss Angie, who always cooked the best Italian meals. As with the calzone that melted my taste buds and my heart, on my first few days in Italy, this meal in Pisa renewed my soul. You might think I’m exaggerating, but this weekend rejuvenated me after a long winter season. 

Just getting out of Brindisi and seeing another part of the Italian countryside, another city, was soothing. I didn’t feel like a tourist, but like a fellow countryman, save one who couldn’t speak the language well. This was also true the night before, when I ate at the hotel by myself because I had gone to eat at seven thirty. No other customers appeared until well after eight thirty. By then, I was on my liquor dessert, ready to call it a night. 

At the hotel, I got my first taste of being wined and dined in Italy in a well-to-do manner. I even came down dressed up, wearing the remnants of my school outfit, which was a collared shirt and dress pants.

Avoiding their cocktail bar, I asked to be seated, and so they put me at a table for two in front of this magnificent window, which spanned the entire room and looked out onto the back of the Tower of Pisa. It was the exact picture I had when I had come in off the road only an hour earlier. Wanting to indulge, I ordered various things I had never tried before. The one course that stood out was the Chianti beef. It was unbelievable and one of the best meals I’ve had, considering the flavor and the overall taste of the meat itself.

If I hadn’t enjoyed my simple homey clams with linguine the next day, I would say that the Chianti beef was my favorite meal of the trip. Still, the fact that my lunch at the horse racing restaurant brought me back to the memory of my youth and a time of innocence was too hard to beat.

My third meal may sound like a disappointment, but when I walked off to see the tower, I noticed a Chinese restaurant near the campground. It was a bit farther down. For some reason, I always enjoy trying Chinese food in different countries. When I was visiting my parents in Panama, one of my last meals there was at a Chinese restaurant in David. 

I like going to Chinese restaurants for two reasons. For one, you get a good amount of food for the price, and there are usually many options to choose from. In Italy, restaurant bills add up quickly. Whether I was playing tourist or not, I needed to compromise on what I was willing to pay. The previous night’s meal cost seventy euros, while my wonderful lunch cost ten euros. I didn’t want to break the bank, so the Chinese buffet for another ten was a solid play. 

On a different trip, I found a quaint Chinese place outside the Vatican. Only a short walk from my boutique hotel, it was equally convenient. With the hours of service time varying so much, I wanted convenience. After walking the streets for twenty minutes and ignoring the multitude of pizzerias, with no desire to eat Italian, this small, mom-and-pop Chinese restaurant, which seated at most twenty-five people, was a good call.

This place was cool for several reasons. Aside from having the place to myself, they made good dumplings. I enjoyed them so much that the owner brought me extra dumplings to sample. I thought she was bringing me another order of the same dumplings I ordered, but this was their vegetarian option. While they weren’t as good, they were decent and free — two positives when one is traveling. As for the service, they were attentive and eager to check on me, which was a nice change from dining out in other Italian establishments where the staff do their best to ignore you for as long as possible. 

In Pisa and Rome, I had good luck with Chinese. While that’s not the purpose of this chapter, I will say that if you like people-watching, aside from the Vatican, this is where you'll find more locals eating. Consider the cost, functionality, and a night out that suits everyone. At the Pisa place, it was just me and a bunch of families.

I think it’s essential to emphasize how food truly drives everything. As travelers, of course, we all want to taste the local cuisine, but there are always so many options, and I know for myself that to truly get a taste for the area you’re in, you need to step outside and be willing to go in a different direction.

The weekend trip to Pisa felt like a trip back home. Even though I felt like I returned to New Hampshire, I equally longed for Brindisi. By Sunday morning, I was ready to go back to my apartment in Materdomini and sleep in my bed again. I secretly prayed that my neighbors and their children were not home and that the werewolves that lived above me had disappeared. Regardless of those wishes, I was ready to return to my new stomping ground. Even though I already dreaded leaving the green of Tuscany, I felt pulled and eager to see the Adriatic and the olive trees. 

Still, in Pisa, what I remembered the most was how clean everything was. It was such a contrast to Brindisi. Yet, in a way, the city, even with its beauty, felt like a hospital room. Be careful to touch anything; don’t mess things up. In Brindisi, it was okay to touch, smell, and embrace.

Leaving my hotel, I walked back to the airport but this time through the center of Pisa, around the monuments, and then down well-worn cobblestoned streets. The air was fresh, and the cooing birds and the vibrant colors of all the flowers put me at ease. Yet as I walked back to the airport, I couldn’t help but think that as much as I felt a kinship with Pisa and the surrounding area, so much so that I was recentered at my core, I felt like the area didn’t speak to my soul the way that Puglia did and continued to do upon my return. 

I will admit that at the airport, when I saw several people in line waiting to board our flight a whopping eighty minutes early, unlike my first flight to Brindisi, where I was annoyed and dumbfounded, on this occasion, I just had to laugh. The ever-growing line, with little space between people, marked the transitional point from Tuscany to the southern part of Italy. While I wasn’t that eager to get back, I can understand why they wanted to be the first in line, ready to board that plane and return to where the spirit of Italy spoke to them the most.  

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